Death of a Loved One
by GakupoFangirl
Summary: Ludwig has done so many terrible things, yet his brother still loves him. However, with great love, there always seems to be a terrible price. The consequences of a long-fought, hopeless war. Rated M for future smut.
1. Chapter 1

**Today… I went to a funeral for a man that I never even met. He used to sing in our church though, so even though I didn't know him personally I cried after the funeral ended. It inspired this fic however… Russia certainly had no part in death, and this is almost purely fictional, so don't say anything about "Russia didn't kill anybody!" please. I hope you enjoy, and please review.**

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_World War II. An era of death, Nazis, and mercilessly spilt blood. A terrible age for mankind, evil beyond imagination._

_Shots, fire, screams. The lives of millions, the blood of thousands of Jews. Bullets and gunfire rang everywhere, everything was lost for him. Ludwig Beilschmidt recoiled instantaneously as a bullet hit the ground in front of him. The battle grounds were nearly empty—all except for himself and another._

No! _he thought_, I won't lose… I won't lose! This is _my_ battle! I've fought it for more than ten years!

"_It's over, Germany. Put your weapon down! I've had enough of you and I'm going to end this here!"_

_A scowling Russian man stepped out from behind one of the bare, dying trees on the field, just feet from him, holding a pistol, cocking it as he stepped ever so close to the German was no ordinary Russian man—it was Russia, the country, _himself_. He stepped ever so close to Ludwig, his lips spread in what seemed to be both a devilish grin and a demonly scowl, both of the faces seemingly melting into one, the smile of what seemed to be absolute evil. His purple eyes gleamed dangerously, his brow furrowed with fierce, undenyable _hatred. _He was dressed in a long, light gray coat, stained at the front with the blood of what Ludwig was sure belonged to both his German soldiers and the blood of the man's own men. His scarf, a pure white, woolen length of carefully woven cloth, however, was untouched by blood or dirt, and his face showed intense anger, the grip on the pistol tightening even more._

"_You turned on our deal. You promised we'd split Poland in half then remain at peace. But then again I can't trust a filthy, despicable _German _Nazi, can I? Foul traitor!" He spat at the ground at Ludwig's feet before continuing, "but I'm not a man to go back on my word, Ludwig… unless my _partner_ backs out first. So this—is—the end! _Do svidaniya_, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Give my regards to the devil—when you see him."_

_He moved the gun up to Ludwig's forehead and prepared to fire at point-blank when a shout of "no!" rang through the air clearly and sharply._ _Suddenly Ludwig was shoved out of the way by strong arms, and Ivan let out a cry of surprise and horror, but before he could stop himself, his finger pulled the trigger—and there stood a silver-haired man with saphire eyes and pale white skin in a military outfit similar to that of Germany's. On his face he wore a shocked, confused, and pained expression._

_He reached up to his chest to feel the stream of blood now trickling down the dark green fabric, and then his red eyes trailed down to gaze dazedly at Ludwig, taking a moment to recognize him._

"Bruder_… I f-feel so… so light-headed… I-I can't think… I can't f-feel. What's… happening… to me…"_

_And Gilbert Beilschmidt toppled to the ground facedown, half-dead, as his younger brother and his shooter, Ivan Braginski, let out a horrified scream, both at once._

_Immediately Ludwig felt frozen to his spot on the ground where his brother had pushed him aside to save him, he could not move, he could only stare at his motionless sibling. His brother had laid aside his own life for _him_, it was his fault that his brother was bleeding to death on a battlefield, which was not at all the way the Prussian had intended to die. It was his, it was Germany's, fault that the once-powerful Prussia had now fallen. If he had never dragged his brother into the war, into this whole Hitler and Nazi mess in the first place, perhaps Gilbert might still be healthy and unharmed, sitting next to him on the sofa at home with a can of beer trying his very best to annoy him. But that wasn't where he was _now_. Gilbert… was dying._

_Ivan was, also, overcome by immense guilt. He had killed a person… he had killed a person… but what frightened him most was that he had aimed, specifically, to kill another man and had instead ended up murdering or at least fatally wounding another. But to kill, that had been his aim! To kill another, breathing, living _country _who was no doubt related to him, no matter how distantly! What had he become? A monster… a monster that lived to kill one of his own kind… Ivan was devastated, afraid of himself. What was to happen to the great nation that he once was? And now he pondered: would the USSR one day be destroyed because of what he had done to it? Discredited it, humiliated it? Crushed its moral values? For indeed the Russian had moral values and beliefs, no matter how ruthless and cruel a man he seemed._

_Ivan crashed to his knees on the bloody battle ground, sobbing at the prospect of having killed a man, and Ludwig, regaining control of his movement, scrambled over on his hands and knees to get to Gilbert, turning him onto his back so that he would lie facing the dark, clouded sky._

_The other's eyes were hazed, he seemed not to know what was going on around him. Did he know where he was? Would he be alright? He was not dead, that was for sure… Gilbert, Gilbert, don't die, don't die!_

"_No! _Nein, bruder, _you stupid oaf, why did you do that? You should've just let me take that bullet! Now you're going to die! Hell, no, why? Why, Gilbert? Did you ever think… how I would live… without you?"_

_He put a gloved hand on the cheek of the dying boy with compassion and hurt, pain in his heart, and upon feeling Ludwig's touch Gilbert opened his eyes slightly so that Ludwig could catch a glimpse of those ruby eyes, mustering all the strength he had to try to speak to his brother._

"_Oh, Ludwig… I'm so _sorry_…" He took a short intake of breath, unable to hold on much longer. "I-it hurts… the bullet, I can feel it there in my chest… it burns… I'm sorry I had to do t-this… but I had no choice…"_

"_Why? Why did you do this? Gilbert_, bitte_, answer me! Don't die, no, don't die…! I love you too much…!"_

_Gilbert moved his own gloved hand up to put it over Ludwig's, gasping, "No… you don't understand…"_

"_What don't I understand? Tell me! I need to know before… b-before… damnit Gilbert, I need it _now_!" Ludwig was bursting into tears, his blue orbs filled with water that was dripping singly down his pale cheek, one by one at the awful sight. This was what it was like to have a loved one dying and hurt… this was what it was like when England witnessed America leaving him, what it was like for Lithuania when Poland so carelessly abandoned him to Ivan took control of him…_

"_I-it's not that _you _love me too much… Ludwig, I love you too much to see you die l-like _I'm_ dying right now… it's not for you… you have a _future_, Luddy. I raised you… to be great." He pulled his gloved off weakly, touching his brother's face lightly, wanting to remember a last touch, to feel his brother for one last time, as he whispered, "and I want you to live to do that. Become… a great man… Ludwig… for me… I love you."_

_And then his eyes grew cold and glassy, his hand dropped to his side with a dull thud, and Ludwig was screaming for him to come back, not to leave him alone, to be with him. But Gilbert was… gone._

_Ivan wiped the tears from his eyes, only to feel more welling up and rolling down his cheeks, and got up shakily on his feet, wanting an escape from this hell. Escape was now all he wanted, to not have to take part in the war any longer, to spill blood and to kill. His boss had forced him—he wanted _nothing_ to do with it! Nothing!_

"_Stop where you are, Russia." Before he could move, a voice, laden with a heavy _foreign_ accent, spoke from behind him. "We all stay together until the end. You are a part of the Allies now, and that's the way you'll be until the war is stopped. Now step aside, I want to talk to him…"_

_England, the man who had given the order, waited for Ivan to walk towards him and the other three men that stood behind the Englishman, and when Ivan had retreated behind him and walked into the midst of the three nations, Arthur Kirkland moved steadily towards the sobbing German. His emerald eyes glinted—the man was dressed in a dark green suit with a white shirt and brown tie, his eyebrows were thick and bushy. The nation himself seemed almost to be completely calm, not truly anxious, although they were, frankly, in the middle of a world war._

"_Germany!" he shouted with confidence and courage; he was not at all afraid of Ludwig, but more respectful towards the powerful nation than anything else. "How much longer must we all toil on to win a war that will have no victor? How much longer must we suffer at your hands? Tell me, Germany!"_

_When there was no respose save for the racking sobs as they grew even more despairing and helpless, Arthur continued on, "We no longer wish to fight, but the Allies refuse to surrender to you! Russia has taken down your brother—we want not to hurt you as well, but to make peace! Will you not give up this desolate hope? This is a battle you can no longer win! Hitler will fall, and that will be the end of your empire! Russia's troops have surrounded Berlin, and there is no escape for the Fuhrer! Surrender now!"_

_For a moment there was no reply. Then Ludwig stood, brushing the tears away with the back of his gloved hand, and turned towards the Allies. For a moment their appearance struck him with shock—five Allied countries, in _his_ homeland, armed and ready to kill. England, America, France, Russia, and China. They were like stone… stone statues, poised ever so elegantly in the middle of a world of death, war, and blood. Stone statues, strange, exotic beings that did not belong there. Dressed strangely, sounding and speaking strangely, with different principles, beliefs, not at all like him. Completely out of place, so out of order… it was not what he was used to, it was like a Jew in the midst of a crowd of Germans. But that kind of thought was exactly what had landed him there, in that battlefield._

_They had their pistols in their hands and loaded and certainly had the means to shoot him and kill him, but what made him stop to think was that they were refraining from doing that very thing. At first he couldn't speak, but one glance at his brother changed that. With what had happened to Gilbert, he was ready to give it all up…_

"_Y-You killed Gilbert!" The first words he choked out, not knowing if the Allies could hear him, but they had. And that gave him further confidence. "That is one act I cannot forgive—no, n-never will I forgive you for such a thing as to murder the brother of another man, but I say this now. I have… little reason to fight, now that you have taken everything fr-from me that mattered, everything that was worldly to me! I cannot bring Gilbert back, neither can you, but k-killing all of you as you did he will not be the solution. I cannot condemn the lives of th-thousands in my country by continuing to fight a hopeless war. _I surrender…!_"_

* * *

Gilbert was not dead. This Ludwig found when he had, two months ago, raised his arms to signal his surrender. The Allies immediately rushed forward, not to put him in shackles and throw him away (although that was what France very likely wanted to do) but to see if his brother was dead, for they did not want to feel the burden of having been responsible for the death of a man, even if that man was the brother of a Nazi, a _monster_. Their guilt was far stronger than what Ludwig had thought, and he was grateful for their concern. However, upon seeing Gilbert's glassy eyes and colourless skin, England declared that he was not dead.

But he was in a coma. A dreadful, terrible coma that had lasted for that past two months and seemed never to come to an end. Was it hopeless? Had Ludwig lost his brother forever?

This he contemplated as he sat in the chair beside Gilbert's hospital bed in London, which he had at that time burned down and bombed, devastating the lives of so many families. He felt great sorrow for his actions back then, but he realized now that this was how he was paying for it. The cause of his brother's suffering was his own actions.

"Gilbert… Gilbert, why did you… w-why—_why_—did you take that bullet for me? My life… it's worthless, worthless. I was a monster, and yet you s-sacrificed everything for me… I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

He scooted the chair closer to the bed and lay his head down against Gilbert's chest as lightly as he could, hearing the faint, beating heart underneath the cloth. Gilbert was in a coma, yes, but it almost horrified Ludwig that he appeared as if he were sleeping normally—he had in no way become degraded or even lost weight throughout the past weeks, although he survived only from receiving what came tho his body through the hospital's machinery, which to Ludwig, who was a doctor by nature, seemed pathetic. But this was Arthur's machinery and _he_ was using it to keep Gilbert alive, which Ludwig was grateful for. But it terrified him that it was as if Gilbert were waiting, motionless, stopped in time, just to _die_. And then Ludwig would never be able to compensate for what he had done, never…

_He could almost feel Gilbert's touch, his quick and silent hands as they trailed across his body… he felt the warm breath on his neck as the albino sank his teeth into the pale skin there, sucking and biting, leaving his marks across Ludwig's neck and back… how he longed for that moment again… to feel the warmth of Gilbert's body beside his_…

The door squeaked open slowly and quietly, so that it went unnoticed by Ludwig, who allowed himself to drift off into a dream with his head on Gilbert's chest, his hand clutching the pale one's hand. He dreamt, he had always dreamt too much, it was dreaming that led to following Hitler, and following Hitler that had led him to disaster.

"…" There was a rustle behind him, and a small noise (a _squeak_ of a sound), the sound of a person wanting to speak but could not gain the courage to do so. "Um… M-Mr. Germany…?" The man finally spoke in a small, almost high voice that would have been mistakened for a girl had Ludwig not smelled the faint scent of cologne drifting through the room. Women had no need to wear cologne, and in fact would be shunned by much of the society if she happened to decide to do so, for cologne was a _men's_ necessity, not at all intended for a woman.

He expected it was one of the male nurses that dropped by regularly to check on Gilbert and to see if they needed to raise his intake of pain-killers. The young man was in terrible, terrible pain—Ludwig did not know if at night he would scream and writh because of the nightmares of the war that racked his restless mind or if it was the result of the pain from the surgery that he had undergone only a week or so ago.

"Mr. Germany… it's me…" Now the voice had regained control of its usual tone, or so it seemed—a small voice, yes, it was naturally so, but lower and quieter, less shrill. "You know my name: It is I, Ivan Braginski."

At this Ludwig only shook his head, his body beginning to tremble from the fear, the dread of meeting the one who had done this. It brought back memories of terror, of anguish, death and reckless sin that came with the greatest consequences that never could be undone. "N-no, _nein_… go away, I don't want to see you, I don't want it… no more pain, please…_ bitte_! It's too much, too much!"

"Germany! Germany… calm down, please…" The man who had been right behind him stepped forward, reaching forward to touch his shoulder, wanting to comfort him. "I never meant to, I'm so sorry! I'm _sorry_! … _Ludwig…_! Please!"

At the calling of his human name, Ludwig froze, silenced by the Russian's sudden words. "D-did you call… did you call me… _Ludwig_? Th-that's my human name… no one e-ever calls me that… except…" A shiver ran through his spine, cold drips of thawing ice, deathly freezing. "… _Gilbert_."

"_Da_, Ludwig, but understand! Understand, please—you never have been able to do so! You've never understood me!" An instantaneously flow of words burst from Ivan's mouth, his mind taking a life of its own, speaking to his body, telling it what to do, what to say. "Do you know that, Ludwig? We always had a neutral relationship, we never knew each other—but the first day your… y-your Adolf Hitler came to speak to my boss, we s-started… to _know_ each other. To become friends… that was _all_ I wanted, Ludwig, to be friends! To have companionship besides my sisters! Although I may be a nation with two sisters and I may seem overwhelmed with relatives and other nations living in my home, I am _lonely_—none of them are truly my friend, but you, _you_ could have been. But you never understood that, Ludwig—you thought all I wanted, _needed_, was to have power! But you were wrong, and you did not want to be friends, all you wanted to keep me from attacking you…! Ludwig, I just wanted to have a friend, and I did not understand either that it was not your choice, but Hitler's, that you and I were not meant to be allied, but to be simply at peace and not at war! That was what spurred my anger, and that anger took me to the battlefield, driving me to insane measures—even to kill. To kill _you_! But instead I took another life, a poor, innocent soul… it is like the raindrops that fall from the sky, Ludwig, that touch the surface of the ocean. One falls… one falls, and others, millions others, fall after it, and those millions become ripples on the water's face that spread and affect so many things. It is just as you were the first drop to fall, to start what you thought was a rightful war—and many followed, including myself, and many that wanted not to fight were affected by our violent acts. Gilbert himself is like the ocean—what we have donw was never meant to have impact on him particularly, but he has begun to die because of us. What has happened to him is all of us, all the pain we have inflicted on him, that has driven all of us and Gilbert to the brink of destruction. But I blame not you, Ludwig—I come to beg forgiveness of you… and Gilbert. Please, please, accept my apology… I do not want to bear ill will with you…"

Upon finishing his speech the young man fell to his knees, just as he had on the day he had shot Gilbert—crying with remorse, not wanting to be rejected. He was like a child, a young, innocent child, knowing that what he had done was wrong and wishing it could have been otherwise even though there was no way to undo the past actions. What had been done was done, and what was then was now.

"… _I-Ivan_…" Ludwig gave a hushed stutter, and Ivan's head snapped up to stare into his eyes hopefully. "Ivan… I am sorry… I know that what I did was wrong and yet I did it, and that you did also. I cannot say that you are the one who is wronged while I carry the same burden upon my back. I… I forgive you, if you… will forgive… me."

There was a moment of silence, and suddenly Ivan's lips curved into a dim smile as he whispered, "_Spaseeba_," the Russia word for "thank you". And then, ever so quietly, he moved forward and, moving the Prussian's hand, slipped an object under it, and then slipped outside the room and took his leave. With slight admonishment, Ludwig turned to look at the item and was nearly reduced to tears when he realized what it was.

There, lying under Gilbert's hand, was a single sunflower.

* * *

A month passed by agonizingly slowly after Ivan's visit, and every day Ludwig came to visit his brother. Upon odd visits he would come into the room and catch the smell of vodka hovering in the air and would know that Ivan also had come to see Gilbert, and he was always glad to know that. It made his feel warm, secure, perhaps even safe, to know that another person had been also praying for Gilbert—a friend. He would always sit, close his eyes, and inhale, smelling the air, taking in the scent of the other man. He missed him, Ludwig knew, he missed Ivan.

But one day, Ludwig received a horrible phone call, and incredulously, he stood, the receiver held against his ear, opening his mouth to speak into the phone itself, but finding that he could not speak. Not knowing what to do, he dropped the receiver, which dropped from the phone and dangled lifelessly in the air, and rushed out of the house. He didn't bother to take the car—there was heavy traffic on Fridays in Guildford, where he was obliged to stay to be near to Gilbert, and he wanted little to do with reckless drivers today. Instead he darted into the train station, taking the first train to London, where there was only that hospital that Arthur could admit Gilbert into. Buying his ticket seemed to take an eternity, and he soon found himself sitting anxiously in his seat, thoughts racing through his mind endlessly, and ran out the moment they arrived at their stop. Racing through the streets, his head turned, at strange moments, to catch glimpses of the wreckage that still lay on the sidewalks, the shards and remains of the bombs, the still devastated houses. It was his fault, all of it, and now this…

_The touch of his brother. The slender fingers moving across his warm chest. It was all too familiar, but for it to be _gone… _gone forever… was too much for him to bear._

He did not want to believe it, nor did he think it to be true at first, but when he stumbled breathlessly into the hospital room, he stopped completely—his head spun, his mouth turned dry at the sight of the heart monitor's flat line, the limp, motionless figure that was Gilbert. Ivan and Arthur stood on one side of the room at the bed, tears slipped down Ivan's face, his lip trembling as a child's might, as Arthur reticently put a hand on his shoulder to offer some assurance.

"L-Ludwig… I-I'm so… so _sorry_…" At the sight of a panting, breathless, and shocked Ludwig, Ivan burst into unexpected tears, and Ludwig could not help himself, he did not want to see Ivan in such pain as the pain he was in as well—he rushed forward, embracing the Russian tightly, not knowing what to do, as he began, also, to cry.

It seemed to be the end. Gilbert was now truly, without a doubt, dead and gone. There was no resurrection, there was no escape. He was gone. Passed away. And Ludwig was devastated. There was nothing more he had wanted, after the war, than to Gilbert to be the one at his side, to be the one consoling him. Gilbert was all he had and all he wanted. Nothing more. And now everything that Ludwig had was suddenly gone.

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**I promise you all, I will continue this. I will keep going. Please review, remind me to continue. Because I will forget. PLEASE REVIEW and I will try to update.**


	2. I'm Back! (Author Note)

I'm back, people! I'm totally back and ready to go for more fanfiction! I know I've been idle for over a year, but no time better than the present!

Well, see you guys around!


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